


Intellectual Porn

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: OnTheWayto4K Celebration [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Dean Winchester, Embarrassed Dean, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Fuckbuddies, Letters, Love Letters, Not Beta Read, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Porn, Porn Video, Reader-Insert, Secret Relationship, Sex, Sexual Content, Shy Dean Winchester, Smut, Stripping, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, smut in smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-08 09:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12861729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Anonymous asked:Taking prompts? If so, i have a request. "Of course, i don't watch porn, Dean...I'm an intellectual, I read porn!"Dean insists he would not read porn.Dean learns he will quite readily read porn.Dean tries to write porn.  It is hard, but he figures it out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: "Taking prompts? If so, i have a request. "Of course, i don't watch porn, Dean...i'm an intellectual, i read porn!" Where Dean makes fun of OFC for reading fanfiction so she sends him links of her favorite fics and he secretely loves them, even randomly quoting them and it brings them together? Thank youuuuu ❤"  
> ...  
> Nonny, I love this request. When I think of how this should go I think of being able to reference fics by my fave writers, which means re-reading their work and cherry picking quotes from so many of their deep and broad masterlists. And as much as I’d love to lose hours rereading the best, the problem is that that. Is huge. It would be huge, because it’s me. I tend to go large. And I don’t have the means for something that epic right now. SO! I’m going to take your line (which I also love) and make something smaller from it. My apologies Nonny, for creating an easier option, I have a problem with being okay with “Almost achieved my vision” in that I can’t. 
> 
> I hope you like what I did instead…

“Okay, well, since there is nothing else to do in town, how about we just crack a few beers and cruise Dean’s browser history.”

Sam snorts, bouncing in his chair and looks at Dean for his reaction.

“Yeah, right, like you’ve never watched porn,” Dean scoffs.

“Ah no.  Of course I don’t _watch_ porn Dean,” you tell him, ignoring how he rolls his eyes.  “I’m an intellectual; I read porn.”

“Oh, so we should peruse your browser history, is what you mean.”  He shakes his head and takes a sip.  “Snob.”

“What? No! No snob!  It’s _smut_ and-”

“It isn’t ‘erotica’?” Sam checks, throwing you a bone of dignity.

“God, it’s not like it’s for book club.  I don’t _pay_ for it Sam.  It’s smut-” you turn back to Dean, “and I’m telling you it’s easily as good as porn. And better in many, many ways.” You go to drink and interrupt yourself- “And more ethical too!  Doesn’t use people.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that, but _words?_   Words, Y/N.  It’s words.  No.”

“They’re good words Dean.”

“Sorry.  No.  No contest.  Porn wins.” He drank his beer like that was the last word on the issue.  The irony.

* * *

Two weeks later, once you’d gotten back to the bunker and cleaned yourselves up, you’d had the presence of mind to create a little context for your plan.  Casually cruising by the kitchen in your running gear let you give Dean a few minutes of your shining décolletage while chatting pleasantly over his coffee.  Tthat was one seed.  Another was wearing the _short_ pj shorts one morning, just enough to show him the curve at the top of your thigh.  Chuck in a few morsels of food carefully taken into your mouth by tongue and teeth, maybe a wink or two, it was all very playful and Devil May Care, but it was enough.  then you needed to get started on the next part, because that would take some consideration.

A day later you were penning _Dear Dean_ onto a clean page, copying down what you’d drafted on the screen, and you left the letter on his desk.

* * *

Dean sees it as soon as he enters his room, his hair still wet from a shower.  He’s ready for bed, but once he checks the signature, he’s more than ready to take the time to read a letter - a _letter_ for crap’s sake - from you.  He sits at the desk and leans on his elbows as he reads your script.

_Dear Dean, I decided to take your advice.  Maybe I was being snobbish about porn.  There’s surely got to be more than hardcore asshole crap out there - and there is! Yey! - and there really was a lot to like.  I like the one’s where it’s in a bedroom, as though they like/know each other, and if it’s black and white that’s even better - it sets of the shadows and lines really well.  Also I noticed that lots of these types do the perspective better.  As in, it’s not his perspective; it’s theirs, or hers.  There’s a lot more generosity in them.  It’s nice.  
_

_My problem with it though is the factual stuff.  It’s definitely hot, sensuous, to watch two good looking people fucking but, to be frank, the women are rarely like me.  They always, always, have perfect noses, one chin, flat bellies, ideal curves.  And if they’re different they’re not my kind of different.  I have to close my eyes and imagine big hands pressing into the fat of my hips, with my stretch marks, slipping over the hunting scars on my belly-_

Dean’s gaze slips off the page.  He’d never thought of it that way.  So much porn is about what’s done to the woman and it’s easy to replace one dick with another, especially when that’s the only part of the guy they show.  But you see _all_ of her, and none of them look quite like you, even the beautiful ones.  None of them have scars like yours either.  Without realising Dean begins to file through the parts of you he knows, the teasing angles he’s caught recently, comparing them to the idealised version he’s seen at 2am on 14% battery.  He doesn’t notice either how the words he uses pitch you in a particular light - strong, sweet, stoic, kick ass, familiar. He reads on…

_They have pretty breasts, in some way.  The big ones are perky and the little ones are cute.  Mine are just Whatever Dude-_

Dean smirks.  He loves your blunt side.

_If I’m on my back they’re not gettin’ up for anyone.  Not unless my guy is right on them, lips and tongue, dragging the roughness over the tip until it sits up straight - then we might get a little shape.  And some sort of generous gathering needs to happen if you want cleavage, and oh god do I want cleavage.  I want a guy to struggle with them.  I want him to get a good mouthful, feel his teeth drag over the skin, feel him hum about how good I feel._

At this point, Dean notices his cock chubbing a little, and quickly, what you’re doing here dawns on him - sending him a saucy letter to prove the point. It’s a little _personal,_ but cute.  He checks if any of the pages are double sided, and spies a few keywords like _cock, fuck,_ and _come_ , and he’s suddenly a little nervous about this.  But he keeps reading…

_The thing is, I can watch oral sex and that works well.  I can watch a guy’s tongue trace the folds of her pussy and suck on her clit and my mind fills in the internal tug, how his mouth warms the whole area.  I can remember the burn of stubble and imagine breath, bassy groans, and that fucking tug-tug-tug on my clit, how it pulls on more than just the skin.  But when it comes to the actual fucking, when I watch his cock press into the notch of her sex and push, push into her and disappear-_

Oh God, Dean’s leaning on one elbow now, the other arm busy holding onto the base of his cock to keep it together.  He missed the bit where he was meant to stop and be shocked.

_-that’s just not as good.  What smut covers, that porn doesn’t, is the sensation of what’s inside.  If porn’s all you’ve been getting when it comes to what’s going on inside a woman Dean you’re missing out.  When a cock, a nice thick, hot cock pushes me apart, every nerve inside sighs._

Dean shifts forward in the seat, lets his balls hang off the edge.

_The drag of skin against skin, back and forth, every pulling wave of friction, it’s something I feel up to my ribs, and if he’s shaped just right, long and thick enough, the way he pushes me apart all the way inside and nudges where it rings,-_

He has other pyjama pants, he thinks.

_-holy fuck, porn doesn’t show me that. Words show me that, they tell me how it feels for me,inside my body.  It’s only a few paragraphs but the angle, the buzz, the relentless pleasure of it and how I reach myself back, or wrap myself around him-_

Oh yeah, you would.  You’re so much woman.  He’d love to see your brow clear in rapture.  The drop of your jaw on that thrust.  He’d be so proud to give you that. 

_Holy fuck, I’m sure you’ve noticed when someone hooks their ankles behind your back that it changes but has anyone ever told you why that’s the bomb? Your cock fucking drags, it’s mean, right into my g-spot,.  It’s like the angle pushes the skin inside so there’s more of it, like stretching my cheek, and it’s so close to painful I don’t even know what noises I make.  It’s a struggle to keep myself there most times, because it’s so good I think I’ll cry._

Quick as he can, Dean gets his hand inside his pants and lets some of that friction build the empathy.  He bites his lip, his fist clenching the paper, and breathes hard through his nose.

_And it’s the same for you!  I mean, you’d have to tell me if I’m wrong, but what I’ve read about your side _is so good_.  It’s more than the come shot - it’s the sensation of skin on skin, dry and hot, it’s shy eyes and wet, salty kisses,-_

Yes, intimacy, humid and noisy. _  
_

_\- and the human bulk of someone beneath you letting you fuck into her very person, asking you to make her feel so good her body explodes the pleasure just to cope -_

Oh Christ, he’s seriously going to come soon.  He’ll never tell you he did, but screw it, he wants to.

_\- Porn doesn’t tell you how a woman’s pussy sucks you in, it doesn’t make your brain sigh about the heat and pressure and how far that reaches down your cock and pulls on your balls.  It doesn’t show little pulses you get from floor muscles quaking or clit’s being teased, -  
_

Dean grunts, trying to slow his hand.  His foot skids along the carpet to make room. _  
_

_\- or how, like it happens for me, when I move around his cock shifts too and when I move it must tug and tilt, it must be the same kind of delicious to be connected to a person like that, -_

It’s you, in his mind, connected to him.  The curve of your thigh under his hand as your leg’s wrapped around his waist, the shine of your throat as you arch back, the press of your tongue when you’re beyond talking.  His eyes close every few words, like a long blink, so his mind can play this bespoke film as he reads.

_\- the words remind you what it’s like to bury your face in her neck and listen to her sigh against your ear and says things like Dean! That!  **Please!** as you push and give and push and fuck and feel the one you’re fucking shake because of you._

You come in his mind and he comes in his pants, messing his hand as he slips back and forth over his aching length.  He thinks of you rocking under him, scratching his back in surprise and bliss, and he drags it out to the rhythm of the fantasy, slowing as he thinks of his grateful lips on your neck, and swallows on a dry tongue.

_Sorry, that’s getting a bit specific, but you know what I mean.  I imagine that’s what a woman would say when she’s with you, so I guess you imagine it too.  I know I like it when I’m comfortable enough with someone that I don’t mind saying how I feel.  
_

Damn, yeah, he likes that.  That’s always nice.  Nice is nice.

_So my point, obviously, is that sure, words might feel like work, but maybe you should consider them as more of a gift.  I think you get a lot more out of them, more than the black and white on the screen._

Dean pants over the page, feels his breath bounce back up against his damp neck.  What the hell did you just do to him?

He slumps back in his chair, still breathless and a little confused.  He picks up the last page to see what you’ve said.

_And I know it’s all rather explicit but tbh I don’t mind what you think of me.  I know you’ve jacked off to strangers fucking each other.  Well, I get off reading about how someone makes me feel, how they might feel with me.  You’re welcome to write back and argue the point - although I guess I used text to promote text.  What would you use to promote porn? ;)  
_

_See you tomorrow, Y/N xo_

Dean flips the freshly crumpled page around, checking for a P.S., but there’s none.  He lifts up his waist band to assess the situation.  “Holy shit,” he sighs, “she made me come with god-damned words.”  He has to concede, you make a compelling argument.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries writing back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank @eyes-of-a-disney-princess for this prompt.

Yesterday was hair.  The day before was lips.  

_Dear Y/N, Your eyes are the prettiest-_

“Your eyes are the prettiest. Well, no shit you ass.  How the fuck am I gettin’ there with that?  No.”  Dean’s up to talking to himself now.

_Dear Y/N, Your eyes ~~are the prettiest~~ make me_

…stare? Pause?  Swoon?  What do eyes make anyone do?  “Nothing.  No eye, by itself, in the history of optometry-” Okay sometimes the colours are cool but, you know what? We’re calling this a work in progress.  Fresh line.

_Dear Y/N, Your letter was a surprise.  I found it on my desk and opened it straight away.  
_

“I found it where you left it,” mumbles Dean, scrunching up his 4th abandoned page.  “I read words that were written.  I’m writing words right now.“  It’s very hard to not sound stupid, or creepy, it seems.  There was one other attempt centred around breakfast, but he just couldn’t get the words to say what he meant, and the details - milk and dishes and stuff - it was all jarring.  

Dean leans back in his seat and picks up your letter again. How did you do that?  How were you brave enough to drop that on him?

He’s read your letter nearly every day, or a part of it at least, since it appeared two weeks ago and somehow he’s managed to continue on as though no such thing ever happened and that his brain is still in one piece.

There were a few tense moments when you first saw him the next day, but when he’d pressed on as usual, stared through your head for the “casual eye contact” and faked his nonchalant self, you didn’t really react.  If he thinks real hard though, zooms in on a few seconds, _maybe_ you seemed disappointed in his non-response.  But then he wasn’t giving you shit for it either, so you hadn’t pressed the point.  There was a chance, after all, that Dean had been embarrassed - or worse, disappointed - so if he was willing to not say so, you were happy to have it disappear.

All was well enough.

Except Dean can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop reading about it.  Can’t stop his dick from chubbing up every time he sees the pages - in the drawer, under the books, the bottom of his duffel bag - and can’t stop how he rushes through his evening routine some nights so he can shuffle under the covers, get a warm hold on himself and jump straight to his favourite part-

“… _I can remember the burn of stubble and imagine breath, bassy groans, and that fucking tug-tug-tug on my clit…”_

From the start he’s imagined himself doing that. (Have you noticed his mysteriously consistent 4-o’clock shadow?)  He even gets the tip of his tongue up near his upper lip, thinking of that specific little pull he’d make.

“… _when I watch his cock press into the notch of her sex and push, push into her and disappear…”  
_

 _That’s_ his first sigh, the first beat in the rhythm.  He settles in then.  Closes his eyes and lets his mind jumps to the next part: 

_“…When a cock, a nice heavy, hot cock pushes me apart, every nerve sighs._ _… and if he’s shaped just right, long and thick enough, the way he pushes me apart all the way inside and nudges where it rings…”  
_

His memory edits the highlights together now and he lays back to run through the scene again.  It’s like a script, nearly the same thing, every night, and every show is a sell-out hit.

But it’s still only an audience of one.  So today he’d stolen some pages from the printer and put pen to paper and, for the life of him, he may as well be describing his own scrotum:  It might be about sex, but it ain’t sexy.

He gives up for the time being, and tucks your letter under his pillow for later.

…

You’d flirted with the guy.  Flicked your hair and sassed him short.  You’d been on point and nailed it.

Dean drives and tries not to clench his jaw.

You’d fought the bastard and the light, the goddamn light was literally trying to make Dean confess.  Your eyelashes were thick in that yellow angle, the glisten of your sweaty skin somehow more vital that usual.  And you’d been strong.  In every fall and every hit, you’d conquered.

“You okay?” Sam asks.  “We won, you know.”

“Yeah man,” Dean says breathily.  He gives Sam a cursory smile, creases and all, saying “Sure did.  Good day.”  Then he goes right back to driving and thinking about the thing his mind slips into everything it’s free: you.

As soon as the car is parked, Dean begins the pack up, every aspect of him stern and focused.  You and Sam watch him move about the space, unwilling to draw fire with a question, so he’s able to get himself through the routine and back to his room as soon as he likes.  And by the time he’s finished his very rough shower, and abused his hair half dry, he is ripe for some sharing.

_Y/N.  
_

_You are going to **fucking kill me**._

Dean’s using the back pages of his journal, meaning to tear them out and send them. Or burn them.  Either way.

 _I swear to fuck you knew exactly what you were doing w that letter._ “ _Your cock fucking drags, it’s mean, right into my g-spot.  It’s like the angle pushes the skin inside so there’s more of it, like stretching my cheek.”  That’s what you said.  You sent them to me. And I can goddamn recite it from memory now.  You’ve made me obsessed.  I never jonesed for porn like this!  So I was right!  Smut is worse.  The **worst**.   HA.  
_

_And you think I didn’t notice how you put us in the same moment there?  You meant every word bc there is no way you didn’t draft that.  Just popped you and me into a scene & it **cannot be unscene** Y/N.  Thanks for the oral sex imagery there too btw.  Top work.  I thought I was putting on weight for a few days but no it was my poor dick filling out my pants every time you had a full mouth.  I have made up new curse words because of this.  
_

Dean takes a moment there to calm himself, though it doesn’t go far.  He shakes out his hand from the furious scrawling and huffs a bullish breath.  He’s not done.

_Oh also could you try, next time, when you’re fighting someone, to look less kick-ass?  Not that but, less_

He doesn’t have a word for this.  But there’s something about the image of you on one knee, gritting through a hit with red on your face, collar bones glistening, and tight in your jeans, it’s so wrong, but it really is, it’s so fucking hot…

_angular?  Less I dunno, formidable?  Less sexy okay?  I’m an asshole.  You fighting is sexy.  That’s how much of an asshole I am.  I mean I worry about you, all the time, but holy shit I love to see you fight.  I love it most when you get up again, but seriously.  And I have no fucking idea at all how the hell to start something with you.  What am I gonna fuckin quote you to you?  I have literally jerked off to your letter every single damn day - sometimes twice - & I can’t even be like “You see this?” bc I’m pretty sure it’s not even clean any more.  Mine forever now._

This time Dean does relax a little.  He stares through the pages and thinks of those parts that are intangibly good, what’s between the lines.

 _You said_ “ _the human bulk of someone beneath you letting you fuck into her very person.”_

Dean stares at the sentence.  He wants to tell you, but worries that it might sound pathetic, that sometimes he rolls over and faces down on his bed when he fucks into his own hand, and that it’s because of those words.

He loses his flow, and ends up reading parts of the letter again.  Long seconds pass as the imagery occupies his mind.  When he resumes writing, he gives an inch or so of blank space for the new line, and the pen doesn’t indent the paper like it did before.

_I knew I wanted you before.  That’s why I flirted so much, & why I was so okay with talking about porn & whatever w you.  I didn’t think I could get closer than that.  I know I stirred you up & was - I’m gonna say A Shit - at times.  I was pissed that I couldn’t be with you.  
_

He’s well into Dear Diary land now… _  
_

_But now I’ve read about what it could be like and you’ve made me want it even more.  You’ve made me suspect you want it too.  So guess what, I’m not going to say “I wanna make you feel those things” like some weak ass summarising idiot.  (btw yes this is definitely me getting you back.)  I’m going to tell you specifically:  
_

Here Dean goes all out.  He shakes his head as he writes, nods and licks his lips bitten for the truth, and it feels good, real good to get it out in some way that less mood-boardy than a good jerking off. _  
_

_I do want to bury my face in your neck & hear you sigh in my ear.  I want to look down and see all your skin facing mine.  I want to feel the little pulses you’d have from my fingers teasing you, inside you. It feels like the last place on you.  I want that delicious connection.  I definitely, regularly, want to feel your pussy sucking me in, all the way, to the root, all hot & slippery, I really, really do. I want to feel you shake under me.  I want you.  I want to feel you.  I want you to want me.  
_

There.  That.  He reads it through.  

Yep.  That’s the feeling.

He’s tired.  It’s been a long day and he didn’t expect to do this tonight, let alone spend this long.

_I’m not willing to ~~admit~~ say that smut is better than porn.  But why’s sending a dick pic or getting a snatch snap seem so much less of a big deal than words?  Maybe it’s the time it takes, the investment/attention.  Maybe coz it’s you._

Dean slaps the book closed.  He’s about to start talking utter shit and it’s way too late to be committing such drippy stupidity to paper.  He climbs into bed and for the first time in 16 days he doesn’t jack off about you; he bunches his pillow and thinks of being a big spoon instead.

The next morning, Sam knocks on Dean’s door with news of a hunt worth investigating, and Dean has to lean his fingers on the desk and act casual because he was almost caught reading what he wrote.  

“Sure thing,” he frowns assuringly.  “Be there in ten.”  Probably 20.  

He nods Sam away before finding his spot again and editing a few things.  He adds in, too, the specific things he wishes to detail later, just for the fantasy in which he actually writes this out properly and gives it to you - _nails on my back, thighs that won’t let go, biting ear lobes, hands on ribs, yr hand on my cock_ , _yr weight on my hips_ \- at that point he has to stop, grab hold of the chair a moment because he has to walk out there and work with you again.  Like, actually focus and not just pretend he isn’t secretly addicted to your letter, but literally act like he hasn’t just written down how much he wants to feel himself inside your body and, now that he really sees it, have you look at him like you’d want it again, how you’d pull on his waist and drive your fingers up his scalp to pull him down for a kiss that tastes of your pussy and-

_Focusing._

Focusing.

…

“Where is he?” Sam looks around the library.  Dean’s disappeared again.  “He’s so goddamned distracted these days.”

“Is he?” Shit, is that something you should’ve noticed?  You keep trying to not look at him.  You could easily have missed that.  “I think he’s just getting us some lunch.”

“Yeah, okay.”  Sam’s still suspicious.  “Well, can you find his journal?  I think he’s got something about a Canadian snow witch in there somewhere.  Or somethin’ Canadian.”

“Sure.”  Normally, you’d bristle at being sent on an “errand”, especially when it should be Sam snooping in his brother’s room rather than you.  But you’re too nervous about covering your nervousness to realise how reasonable a protest would be.  Instead you scoot down the hall and go find Dean’s journal.

…

“Where did you get that?”  Dean has plates of sandwiches in his hands and, right now, could easily toast them on his face.  His journal is sitting on the library table, just left of Sam’s laptop.

“It was in your room.” Sam answers while he reads the screen.

“Why were you going through my room?” Dean asks while he stares at the journal.  He thinks to put down the sandwiches and sit.  He’s pretty sure it looked normal.

“Sam asked me to get your journal,” you say, and when Dean’s eyes snap up to you, behind Sam’s head, you manage to smile lightly, eyebrows high and add, “It’s okay, I didn’t have to dig or anything.  No secrets revealed.”

Dean breathes, smiles blankly and shrugs “Cool.  All good.” He hands a plate over the laptop to share and smiles directly at your nose.

As soon as is sensible, Dean finds a reason to go back to his room.  He has a text there he said, or something.  He’s too blind with worry to know if he even made sense, but he takes his journal without asking and puts it back on his desk, then in the desk’s top drawer, and grabs some other alibi item to leave.  

But he should probably make sure.  So he opens the desk drawer, pulls out the journal and opens it to the back, and finds pages as pale as his face and as empty as his panicking mind.

Someone’s torn out his letter.

…

Back at the library, Dean finds Sam alone.  He sits beside him and leans against the table, staring at the side of his brother’s head.

“Are you trying to read my mind?” Sam mutters.

“Pretty much.”

“Well, you can have it for free.”  Sam turns to him and says, “I think we’re headed north.  Tonight.  We need to see things for ourselves.”

Dean stares at Sam and his news, waiting to see if he has anything else to add.

Sam looks sideways, slowly blinks his gaze back to Dean.  _“Okay?”_

Dean decides Sam has nothing.  “Okay.”  He gets up and leaves the library to find you.

Sam turns back to the laptop and starts packing up, grumbling, “Would love it if you two would figure your shit out.”

…

“Y/N?” Dean knocks once and puts his hand on the doorknob.

“ _Oh-_ uh- one-” You sound interrupted.  “Uh- one-!”

Dean can’t help it, he opens the door, stepping in and you’re between your bed and the desk, pages in hand, and you freeze in guilt.

Dean sees them, the pages that have the power to make everyone freeze, apparently.

“Sorry!” You start.  “They- I saw-” You hold the pages out in front of you, at him, and blurt,  “You’re journal is the same both ways!”

He doesn’t understand and blinks at you.

“Back to front and upside down looks like right way up.”  

Dean glares at you, at the pages, terrified.  He opens his mouth, pointing, as though he might ask for it back.  “It’s mine!”  Snatching the letter to your chest, you crush it possessively.  “It’s to me! It’s my letter.”

Dean peers at you, lips mid-pout in readiness for something terribly persuasive… “You want to keep it?”

"I want to finish reading it!” you insist.

Dean’s eyes pop, a flash of hope and opportunity, and he lunges for it, so focused on snatching the pages that he doesn’t see you intercept and kiss him.

 

You kiss him.  His eyebrows go up and he forgets what he was doing, so you wrap your arms around his waist and press yourself close.

And when you feel his hands on the back of your ribs, you let the letter be creased in your fist as you stand on tiptoes and kiss him some more.  He opens his mouth for you, his tongue meeting yours when you reach for him, and he hums lowly at the feeling.  After a while, you’re both swaying from the push, pulling on each other for stability.

Foreheads and noses lean as you breathe and bravely he asks, “How far d’you get?”

“You knew you wanted me before.”

“Oh- shit. Okay.” Dean starts to feel around behind him for the letter and you move your arms up and down.  He reaches back over his shoulder saying “Nope.  That’s about all you need of that-”

“Nu-uh, I want to read it all.”  You’re smiling, but Dean most certainly isn’t.  

He turns in your arms - “Give it here.” - but you slip your arms out and climb onto his back - “I haven’t actually sent it to you, you know!” - pushing his arms away while you search out lines.  “This is illegal!” he barks desperately.

“You’re going to be specific?!” you squeak.

“Give it!“

Your eyes catch _bury my face in your neck_ and _all your skin facing mine._ “Holy shit!”  _  
_

Dean’s struggling has gotten his arm around your waist and he wrenches you around him like a sweater put on backwards, but you’re thoroughly consumed with seeing what he’s written.

“Aw crap it.”  Dean surrenders, stands there as the woman with her legs wrapped around his waist hold son tight and reads words over his shoulder.

You start to read aloud. “I want to feel the little pulses you’d have from my fingers teasing you, inside you. It feels like the last place on you.”  That there makes you pause.  He’s right.  In some way he’s been nearly everywhere else.  

You climb yourself closer, wrapping a hand around the firmness of his neck, and read into his ear, quiet and warm.  “…I want that delicious connection.  I definitely, regularly, want to feel-” He knows what he wrote there.  It doens’t matter if you can’t say it aloud right now. You go on, reporting it now rather than reciting: “You want to feel me shake under you.  You want me.  You want to feel me.  You want me to want you.”

Dean’s arms constrict your waist.

“S’at true?”

He nods, the velvety stubble of his neck brushing against you.  You squeeze him harder, asking “You can’t tell how much I want you?” 

He nuzzles under your ear in reply, the gesture turning into a to-and-fro that gets your chins low, cheeks dragged, your nose by his, with lips ready, and he tucks an arm under your ass to keep you right where you are while you kiss and taste and hum.

It’s rolling and heady, fat with lips and tongue, leaving you both breathless.  Soon Dean’s kissing over your cheek, nudging you about. 

You look at Dean’s letter, something inspired two weeks after your effort.  “I wanna read my letter.”

“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, and keeps kissing.

“I can’t remember what I said.”  You’re words are all secret and quiet.

“Nope, you can’t read that,’ he insists.  He hasn’t yet opened his eyes again.  “It’s-  Y'just can’t.”

“Why not,” you grin.  His nose and lips are under your jaw, bouncing down to your shoulder.  “It’s my letter.”

“No, you can’t,” he says, grinning too, hiding in the intimacy.  “It’s got stains.”

You’re laughing quietly and talk your words against the line of his jaw.  “I’m gonna read yours again then-”

“No, it’s not done.  Let me do a better job.”  He lifts his head and looks at you, breathing warmly at you being so close.  

Slowly, he lowers you and your arms slide around his shoulders, your letter-full fist now on his chest.  He takes the pages and tugs, yanks, purses his lips and _p u l l s_ them from your fist.  “I promise.  I won’t skip a thing.“

You look at the letter now beyond your reach and try to recall the lines that made you lose track of time and place.  “How long you gonna take?”

“Uh, excuse you, these last two weeks have been _torture_.”

BAM! BAM!  “We have to _go!”_ Sam’s annoyed already, and now Dean is too.

He puts his hands on your shoulders and takes a breath.  “Looks like that’s the most either of us’ll be doin’ for a while.”

“Well, the quicker you finish you letter,” you remind him, “the sooner I can write back.”

Dean’s eyes glaze over, dumb with delight, and it takes you thumping him in the chest with his journal to make him snap out of it.  “What?  I’m on it.  Drafting already, Y/N.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wrote a saucy letter to Dean. It rocked his world.  
> Dean wrote back (or tried to at least). And since then you’ve gotten into the smut a bit more, but not so much the porn. Not that you aren’t working on it…

“So, did you even know this room existed?”

“Nope.  No idea.”  Dean lines himself up, finds the depth and leans into it.

“Uholy shit!”

He watches your fingers spread and grip on the flat wood, and gauges the moment.  At least his eyes have adjusted to the darkness.  “Y’okay?”  His brain’s split, a large part of it focused on the sucking pressure of your body holding his cock and the way it pushes down over the shaft.  That part of his brain looks down at your skirt gathered around your waist, the page abandoned on the ground, and waits for a sign.

The smaller part of his brain wonders how the hell you’re here.

You stretch up on your toes, saying “Uh-huh,” and he pull-pushes back into the fullness, huffing a noise as though he’s overheating.  Two inches, then back, then four.  You’re breathing hard in anticipation and Dean’s watching the line of your back, the dusty shine of your skin from waistline to ankle.  He looks at his hands holding you, keeping you there, and watches his cock get deeper and deeper, until his curly hair is pressing against your cheeks again and you’re rolling your forehead on the cool door.

“God, that feels so good,” you sigh.  “Girth, Dean.  Remind me to use the word girth.”

“Feel nice?” he asks, and fully jerks you onto him, the first fuck.

“OH!-oh Grrd yes.  I can feel it in my ass.  Can you hold me tighter?” you ask, and he adjusts his grip.

Pull, push, and gasp.  All rising heat.  “Uh, Christ.  I’m just gonna- gonna pace myself here.”

“Yeah.”

He can shift his boots out a little wider and literally lean them against the walls, since they’re barely further apart than the door is wide, and there’s only half a foot clearance behind him.  This is Room 121, third on your a list of secluded bunker locations and it was circled in red, so he came a’knockin’, and here you were.  Panty free.  He’s still in a mild state of shock.

“It hurts so good,” you sigh.

The honesty in these moments is so damn enticing.  Every word connects, and he imagines them in print.   _Hurts so good, you said.  You’re tellin’ me._  “Yeah?  Whaddya need?”

“Friction.”

 _Fuck_ , Dean thinks.   _Goddamn words._  He pulls back and holds tight before the thrust, and in the spill of the light from the door’s grate, he can see the silhouette of his cock sliding into you.

“More, more please.”

Thump, thump, wet and curly.  The shine and shape of it’s like your pussy’s kissing his balls.  “You feel so good, Y/N.  S’a good idea.”  But a list?  These letters are getting shorter and shorter.  Thrust, pull, and _thrust_.

“Ah! God, that!”

He’s barely even kissed you this time.  Dean tries to focus now, picking up the speed, a steady smack-smack emphasising the ludicrously small size of the space.  Smack-smack-smack, he bends, scooping his hips and _fucks_ -

“AH!” You grit your teeth and push back, shoving Dean against the rear wall and his hands fly out to the concrete, bracing himself as you start to rock back and forth, fucking yourself on him like this right here is what you invited him for.

“Dean? Can you reach?”

He gets his fingers around, under the skirt and between the lips.  You said you wanted each other.  “Love that, how you tighten.”  But the letters since have been mostly… graphic.

“Oh god, your cock is perfect.  Keep going!”

He shouldn’t - but he does - love the way you’re having him, as though he’s a soft part of the wall and his cock just happens to be the right height.  He clenches his eyes shut and goes hard on your clit, panting along with you, letting every pull draw the thrill nearer and his balls higher.

In his last letter, he remembers saying he could take you from behind - _so I can watch your ass shudder with each beat, and pull you against me,_ he wrote.

He’s starting to feel his hips hurt against the concrete.  He gets a foot under him, gets a good hold on your hip bone and hinges forward, shuffles up and takes back the control, jerking you onto him hard enough he can see your hair jolting.  Your voice rises in pitch and volume, and he feels like he’s getting it right.  “Did I really say shudder?” he grunts.

“Uh, yeh. Jesus!”

He smiles; you remember the letter too. “Yeah.  Good word that.”  Dean holds you, and fucks you, and decides that yes, more space would be good, but this room is definitely going to be used again.  Here he can hear every noise you make, he can feel how the work in your legs tugs on him, each tense surprise sucking him in.  He can pull your body onto his cock and hear how much you like it.  He’ll have to kiss you in the dark though, since there doesn’t seem to be an actual light in this room…

This is not going how he’d hoped at all.

…

It’s exciting, and heady, and the whole idea of it makes him feel too young and too old all at once.  But he’s not in control.

Well, not _not_ in control but… Dean looks at you across the library table, working on whatever it is you’re working on.  The smut has been going back and forth for over 6 weeks.  Sam seems to have cottoned on to what’s happening, so that makes things easier, but Dean’s still not sure how to draw it all out into the open.  It’s like the secrecy is part of the deal.  Would the correspondence stop if you could sit in his lap right now?

What he expected was much more mainstream.  Kisses over breakfast.  Snuggling on the couch.  Pet names even.  A ‘relationship’, he realises.  But you’re over there, acting like it isn’t even happening, and he’s been fishing, _trawling_ , for moments when you look him in the eye and show him it’s all real and wanted.

It is wanted, of course.  But there’s something missing, he’s pretty sure.  You’re so… occasional.  Suppressed.

Dean doesn’t notice it but he’s peering at his own hand, poised above the page between words, and his laptop has gone into powersaving mode.  We can use this anytime you like, you’d said.  Not ‘we’, but ‘you’.  Maybe you think Dean wants it hidden…?

He leans back in his chair and rubs his knuckles on his lips.  He told you he wanted you to want him.  Why isn’t it happening like that?  The smut is amazing - it feeds every encounter, and knowing that means writing it is about as thrilling as reading it.  It means he knows what you want and like, and you can be confident of that, too.  But he’s realising that he hasn’t- _oh_.  That’s **_it_**.

“I’m just going to get some work done in my room,” Dean announces and kindly smiles at you as he leaves.

“No problem,” you smile back and go back to your text.

At his desk in this room, he angles his laptop so that the screen faces the wall and the mounted camera points at the bed.  He’s got two birds here, and one stone, if he throws it right.  You told him how porn is so often of the woman, and he knows that that’s because it’s for the man.

Well, if he’s ever going to prove to you that porn is as awesome, if not better, than smut, then he needs to make it for _you_.  Which means it’s going to have to be about him.

…

Back at the library, Sam’s taken himself to bed and you’re peering at something that should have a magnifying glass in front of it.

“Hey, you should wrap it up,” Dean says, patting your shoulder.  “You eaten?”

“Yeah-yeah.  I’m just gonna-”

“Nooooo,” he says, slowly shutting your laptop.  “Come have a shower.  Come to bed.”

Come to bed? “Um, okay.”  You smile and let him lead you out of your chair and down the corridor.  “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.”  Dean throws his arm over your shoulder, feeling more and more confident about his idea.  You shouldn’t be so confused about this, not 6 weeks in.

“So, why am I having a shower?”  You’re at the bathrooms now, and a little wary.

“Because it would be _nice_ , and I’m going to go get you some clothes and a towel.”  Dean opens the door and pushes you in with a hand on your back.

He seems genuine, so you take the instruction and have your shower, shaving things just in case, and look forward to another opportunity to pretend Dean would have you as his girlfriend, even if it’s just behind closed doors.  He said he wants you to want him, and you’re hoping what you’ve written, and the things you’ve said, have made him feel sexy and desired.

Everything is waiting for you when you step out of the cubicle, and since Dean isn’t in your room, you walk to his just to say thanks, at the least.  But he waves you in and, as much as you’d never admit it, the condom and lube by the bedside table immediately catch your eye.

“So I have a favour to ask,” he begins.

You sit on the bed and look up at him.  “Sure thing.  Shoot.”

“You uh-” He sits beside you, turning your way some.  “So we’ve done the smut thing.  And it’s going really well.”

“Really well,” you nod.

“Really, _really_ well.  My vocabulary has doubled.  I _really_ like it,” he says, smirking as you giggle at him.  “But, um, I feel like I haven’t had a chance to argue my point.”

Your eyebrows go up as you think back to how this started.  “You want to watch porn together?”

“Well no- not- okay, so we didn’t read smut together.  We wrote it, right?”

“You want to _make_ porn!!”  Holy shit, he wants to record the sex.

“Only if you’re okay with it.”  He sits and waits while a messy debate goes on in your head, a jumble of compliments, and fear, and excitement, anxiety, apprehension - it’s a damn salad of humanity.  “We can leave your face out of it if you like.  If that makes you more comfortable.”

“Okay.”  It does put you at ease, but quickly a bad taste hits your mouth.  Who is that idea really for?

Dean sees you twitch - he knows why it’s there - but he keeps on with the plan regardless.  “It’s already recording,” he says, nodding at the laptop.  “I’m gonna cut it back to the relevant stuff later.  Just thought it’d be smoother if-”

“No-no,” you nod, too fast, and you smile, too hard.  “That’s a good idea.”

“Okay then.  Okay.  Well, let’s get you- let’s get this show on the road, hey?”

You nod and stand, stepping in front of his knees as you grab hold of your top’s hem.  “Hey, no rush,” he says, brushing down your hips.

A quick nod and you’ve slowed your movements.  It’s strange and awkward to go slowly with this, but Dean’s eyes are moving up and down your belly, glancing at your face with happy creases and you can feel the heat of his palms through your sleep pants.  Slowly, you draw the fabric up, over your head, and drop it behind you, then you unclip your bra and loosen it down your arms, giving Dean what he wants.

He seems happy, a deep breath of thanks.  You tuck your thumbs into your waistband but he leans forward, kisses your belly and around your waist, bending you into him with his arms around your thighs.  You brush down his hair and feel his fingers coast up and down your legs, and into the warmth between them.

“Turn around for me, Baby.”

Facing his door, you feel his fingers tuck into the edge of your pants, pulling them down over the rise of your hips and ass.  His breath furls over your lower back before he says “Can you- put your hands on your knees?”

 _Oh god,_ you think, _I don’t wanna stick my butt in your face._  But you do as he asks and the fabric is pulled over the cheeks, tight and slow.  “Mmmmm, I love your ass,” Dean groans, dragging his teeth over the plumpness in a dull bite.

“Hey! Jesus!”

He ignores you, dragging the pants down to the floor, and guiding you to turn around again.  He kisses around the tops of your thighs, holding you with his forearms flush up your sides as he looks around your lower belly and nuzzles what he likes.  He’s delighted, when he glances up at you, and you smile back, trying to calm your nerves.

“So, if you put your head on the pillow over there, you’re almost out of the shot.”  He shifts back on the bed to make way for you.

“Okay,” you smile. Crawling up the bed is quick, laying on your back is perfunctory, but Dean doesn’t wish for anything different.

“Uh, so-” he says, edging his way to the far side of the bed.  “So this is for both of us, right?”

“Oh, okay.”  Well, yeah, that would make sense.

“So you want me to do this any which way?”  He points loosely at himself, pinches this t-shirt for the question.

“Oh!  I-yyyyuuuh… slowly?”  You really don’t know.  Nor mind, to be honest.

“Ooookay.”  He nods and bites his lips together because fair enough.  He reaches over his shoulder to tug his shirt over his head-

“Uh-uh,” you tell him.  “The other way pretty boy.”

The flattest of huffs is what you get, and after a few blinks at the wall, he crosses his arms in front of himself, doing his best not to smile while you giggle at his very slowly rising hands pulling up the hem of his t-shirt, up, up, revealing his softly muscular belly and chest, and pull it off over his head.  He chucks the shirt on the ground and flops his hands open.  “Happy?”

“Happier,” you say, practically squirming at his discomfort. “Turn around for me baby.”

“Aw for fuck’s sake. No I-” He starts to pull his pants down, but he remembers the camera and is suddenly shy of revealing himself full frontal.  Still half bent, he turns, not all the way though, yanks all the fabric down and crawls onto the bed, over your legs, grinning at your laughter.  “I earned a tip there.”

“You sure did,” you giggle and let him lean over to kiss you.

It’s bright in here, with a bedside lamp and the room light, so when he starts kissing down your body you look at him but that also means looking at yourself.  You opt for looking at the ceiling, then for closing your eyes and letting yourself feel him down your stomach, his breath and hair and eyelashes, fingertips too.

Dean encourages your knees apart and he kisses around the lips of your pussy. Rough knuckles brush down and up the seam, then push against the centre, smearing what’s there, and Dean hums because it’s nice.  You sigh and stretch, trying to relax since his lips are firm and warm on you, his tongue licking hot stripes over the tendons of your thigh and then right up the middle, over and again, seeking out your clit and latching on for a pulling suck.  “Mm, God you always taste so good.”

You thread your fingers into his hair and brush down along his jaw, feeling a kiss inside your wrist.  Then he’s nudging his fingers into you, circling into the core and you match him with the grind of your hips.  You start to make noises you can’t help, little sighs with each increment, and he goes deeper, then thicker, then harder, pushing his knuckles against the flesh outside so he can get further, and starts licking hard and fast, brushing inside to make you arch and gasp.

It’s such a high note, so fast, your lower belly strung between his fingertips and tongue and you grab the blanket, grab at anything, finding his fingers there and lacing them as you arc off the bed and come, loud and surprised.

You pant loudly, surprised and shy, and while you’re calming down you’re vaguely aware of Dean getting on the condom and climbing over you again.

You feel his cock there, his hairy thighs nudging yours up and apart, and his heat and breath over your body.  Once he’s tucked into the dint, he checks “Y’okay?”

“Yeah, um-”

“You come so hard when we start straight after,” he says, and you nod, opening your eyes to show you’re okay.

“Sure, yeah I’m good.”

He leans into it and you close your eyes again, crying out at the thickness pushing into what’s so sensitive, how full and hard it is.  You pull your legs up and he guides them wide, feet to the blanket and knees soft, dragging his hand up and down your body.

You pull on him, coaxing him down onto you, but he unhooks your fingers and says “Up here,” showing you how close the corner of the headboard is, and you hold on.  “You okay?”

“Yeah.  I’m okay.”  You smile at him, honestly, and he nods before looking down and watching what happens next.

It’s a long, full drag, his cock sliding into you, pelvis and skin dragging up between your thighs.  Nothing else of him touches you, but you can’t look in the stark brightness of his room.  “So gorgeous Y/N,” he murmurs.  “Every time.”

You peek at him and smile, but he thrusts again and it makes you throw your head back, he’s so deep and thorough with each coming beat.

Soon his mouth is on your breast, teasing and tugging the nipple, then he’s shifted his knees and started to fuck into you harder, pushing your legs higher, but he’s still on his elbows then, kissing around your chest and neck, right up till the sweat starts to slip on you, and you’re starting to beg for it, whimpering his name.

You want it now, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, palm on his head, picking up your knees and hooking your ankles, tilting your hips, giving him every sign to go for the end.  Dean groans and drops into it, an earnest thump-thump-thump rocking you both, making you cry out for the angle and weight.  It feels so thick and fast, so hot and delicious, all the skin inside singing white as he drags and knocks what you need.

The last encounter in Room 121 was amazing, but you don’t think you’d ever get sick of feeling Dean’s ear against yours, or the softness of his inner arms on you, his belly against yours, all those corners that match up when you’re together like this, giving you both so much.  

His nose and teeth push over the bolt of your jaw, turning your face and he tucks his arms under you to hold on and fuck you so tightly he’s rubbing himself over your clit, right up into your g-spot, grunting for the last moments and making you frown and yelp as he pulls you onto him, pushes into you, and makes you both come.

It takes minutes, you think, before you move, and as soon as you do he kisses you, full and generous.  He peels himself away, cleans himself up, wipes you down too, and pulls back the sheets.

You’re quiet right now, and you have been quiet, but Dean doesn’t mention it.  He turns off the room light so that the bedside lamp remains and he waits for you to get settled under the covers before joining you.

He doesn’t normally go commando, and neither do you, but he’s directing this show so you try not to glance at him.  You just roll over, toward the laptop, and he tucks up behind you with a quiet smile.

“The camera’s still going,” you say, looking at him leaning over you.  Your toes still tingle.  It is lovely to feel him behind you like this.

“Yeah, I’ll cut it back later,” he says. “You get some rest.”  He leans down and kisses you, cups your jaw to help you meet him, and brushes your hair away too.

“’Kay, g’night.”

Damp, burling heat he is, a fair mountain range behind you, and his hand is wrapped around your fist, pressed over your heart.  It’s a hell of a lot more than you ever hoped for.

…

The next morning, you wake alone.  It’d make you nervous if you weren’t already in Dean’s bed.  The laptop has been turned around and you lay there staring at the black screen, wondering if it was a fantastic mistake.  It was a bit quick, it seemed.  Not nearly as decadent or honest as usual, but still fun, for a first take at least.

“Hey,” Dean’s coming in, a coffee in hand for you.  “I gotta go do a few calls for Garth.  Have this.”

You sit up and gather the blankets for modesty, collecting the cup from him.  He’s quick to kiss you, but slow to let it go.  The domesticity addles you.

He’s hesitant for a few moments, thinking about something, then says, “I need you to watch this, uh, nowish.”  He leans across and wakes the laptop, unlocking the screen.  There you can see a frozen shot of his shoulder as he sits before the camera, and Dean comes back to you, a warm hand on your leg.  “You got time?”

He’s asking like you’re going to watch an audition tape, not the sex you shared last night.  “Sure,” you nod.  “Can do.”

“Alright.”  He holds your shoulder and kisses you again before going, and pauses in the doorway.  “You have to tell me what you think.  No chickening out.”  You nod, and he nods, and he’s gone.

Gathering the blanket around your shoulders, you crawl into the desk chair, hit the space-bar and get ready to hide behind your coffee.

There’s Dean waiting for you, standing when you come in.  God, there you are, looking messy and flat and pale, over-lit.  You watch his hopeful face, yours turned away from the camera, and see yourself stand and begin to undress.

Dean watches you too.  It’s such a treat, seeing his eyes dart up and down your form, hands so wide on your hips.  You’re too tall for the frame while you’re that close, so it’s just your lips at the top of the screen, smiling down on him kissing around your belly and hugging your legs with your hands in his hair.

You see him say, more than hear, his request for you to turn.  You push your knuckles into your lips then because his eyes practically glisten when you lean over as he asked.  You’ve never seen yourself look more indifferent to a task, but he reveals your skin like it’s the lost ark, saying something and biting your ass.  Then he’s lowering your pants and actually looks at the camera, rolling his eyes and mouthing _Love this ass!_

“Oh my god!” You squirm tight in the chair, and watch him kiss your body.

When he moves away, talking about the angles you think, you still decide to leave the volume down because you’re not sure you can bear to hear your own voice.  Very quickly you’re lain on the bed and for a moment you’re distracted because the angle is actually quite complimentary.  The line of your jaw is defined, maybe because the lamp light is warmer than the room light.  Your legs don’t look like you remember either, and your breasts- well, they’re definitely breasts, but you’re up to the part where Dean undresses so your attention is diverted.

Hot damn and fuck, thank goodness for angles.  The camera picks up all the shadows of his belly - the softness below the muscular shapes, and the shift of his skin over ribs and serrated muscles.  The spread and drop of his lats too, they make your breath pull tight.  And when he insists he won’t turn around, his dimples and smile make you swallow giggles because you made him shy and silly. He half turns to pull off his pants and his cock hinges off him, full and thick, before he’s happily crawling over you, looking much longer and muscular than you’ve ever seen.

He kisses you, your chest, your belly.  You can see yourself nodding your head upwards, eyes closed, trying to settle into the exposure. When he gets down to your hips he glances at the camera a moment, something open with thought, before looking straight back at you on the bed.  In fact he keeps looking at you, watches you, while his fingers move and he kisses where you’re wet.  He’s still looking when he starts to taste you, licking and sucking.  Then he gets his elbow underneath his shoulder so he can lean and reach into you all at once.  You see your hand grab at things and he reaches up, catching your fingers in his and frowning into it as he starts to make you come, each nod and reach an answer to your body.  He gazes intently at your chest rising off the bed and frowns into the feeling of your release, like he’s feasting on it.

Saliva’s been pooling in your mouth and you swallow, thinking to release your jaw.  In the recording, Dean gets on the condom as quick as he can, a quick squirt of lube applied before coming back over you, and you remember him saying something about coming hard.

Your hands reach up for him, fingertips dragging down his chest and cheek, and he tilts so your palm can meet him, fingers over his ear, then he guides your hands up to the headboard.   You remember it being so heady, but from here it seems so sweet.  It’s as though the sound being turned down shows you what you’ve not seen, but it feels like you’re watching a connection.  He’s happy to have you there, happy to look you in the eyes and talk about what you’re doing.  He’s looking for you.

From under the blanket, you stare at Dean pushing into you, the long drawing shape of his body leading his cock into your heat like a great long lick.  All his muscles present - arms, chest, and abdominal shapes rolling and easing as he holds himself over you.  It’s all the stuff you’ve had in your mind but never dared to capture, stuff you’d certainly never write down.

He looks down at you both, glances at the camera again, and you realise he’s trying to give you the whole show.  There’s not too much missing either, if you’re honest: you can see his length beyond your curls, disappearing over and over as he moves.

Dean watches you, fixes his gaze on your face as he fucks you, noticing the way you undulate and shift for him, and you fix on the way he watches you, taking every cue and responding to every gesture.

Quickly, you turn up the volume a bit.  It doesn’t really sound like you, so that’s easy to hear, but Dean certainly sounds like Dean and he seems to be in deep, aching pleasure.  He starts to licks your nipples into his mouth, hungry lips in luscious softness, long eyelashes on his cheek.  He looks beautiful.  And you look like a beautiful woman beneath him.  A woman he thinks is beautiful.

You tuck the blanket tight again while Dean’s body curls on the screen, dropping to his elbows when you wrap your arms around his shoulders, instantly changing it from a sexy fuck to something more intimate and needy.  The muscles of his shoulders and back work so hard, so fast, your legs curled up around him and holding on through each thumping thrust.

Then he’s turned your face with his, to the camera, though past the pillow it’s only one fierce eyebrow and a burning cheek, but he’s right there against you, eyes open to see you peak and snatch at him, right when he curves up tight and pulls you down, showing you how hard and blind it is when it’s perfect.

You’re aching again, in your joints and your groin, watching what happened maybe 12 hours ago on the bed behind you.  He looks wrecked, both of you do, as you hold each other and puff.  Your fingers shift in his hair and he starts kissing you, so full and hot.  You start to feel guilty for never having caught that before, but then you’re always afraid that it wouldn’t be what you’d want to see.

Then he’s looking after you, smiling and caring for you, and got himself all tucked up and snuggled behind you before kissing you so attentively and falling asleep.  When did you last blink? Who knows.  You inhale deeply, roll your shoulders… then notice there’s quite a bit to go on the recording.  So you drag the cursor along until you see something move.   Dean’s pulled himself away from your body and got his pants back on.  He creeps around the bed and sits in the chair.  This time you turn up the sound.

“Y/N?” he says, testing your sleep.  “Y/N? Wake up.”

But you don’t, and you know you don’t remember anything like this.

Dean looks at the camera and licks his lips, looking quite unprepared…

“When I said I wanted you to want me,” he starts, “I didn’t mean just physically.”

He stops and thinks about the words, looking past the camera as though he’s nodding on the inside.  Then he leans back and drags his finger and thumb over his mouth, over the moustache line, and takes a moment while he thinks some more.

In the background you stretch and roll, distracting him a moment and he grabs the armrests to sit tall and check on you. A smile grows on him, his chest dropping at the sight.  “You see that woman over there?” he asks the camera.  “That smokin’ hot woman? In _my_ bed?” He smirks like he’s got all the cards, waggles his eyebrows.  “She uh,” he bites his lips some, shaking his head at his thoughts.  “She let’s me- _be_ with her… and then she _tells_ me about it.  Frikken puts it to paper!  That is some scandalous shit, let me tell you.”

He’s laughing quietly, just like you are right now, and keeps glancing back to check you’re still really sleeping.  “Anyway, she gave me this list of secret places where we could do all that stuff and I realised that um, I don’t want a list of places.  Except I kinda do-” he assures.  Your cheeks are starting to hurt.  “It’s fucking hot! It is, and it’s good, for all that and all, but what I mean is, some parts of this, sure, _they_ need secrecy, but the rest-” He squares himself to the shot and leans in for a quieter voice.  “No more keepin’ that secret, okay?”  He glances back one more time before whispering, “And I hope you appreciate me Chippendale-ing my ass off because I am _not_ doing that again.” He smiles at you in the future, and it seems he thinks he’s said enough.  “Okay…  Talk to you soon, Babe.”

The screen goes blank, and you stare at the little indicator on the timeline a full four seconds before dragging it back a few minutes.  “-wanted you to want me, I didn’t mean just physically,” he said.

You watch it to the end again, twice, and drink it all in.  Watch every part of him while he’s thinking about you and calling you Babe.  He looked at the camera, twinkling and happy, and called you Babe.

Ignoring your bladder, you find a piece of paper and push the laptop closed for a clear surface to write upon.

 

> _Dear Dean,_
> 
> _First - the bad news.  Smut still wins.  You'll see why._
> 
> _But the good news? You have been nominated for the Best Up & Comer (lol!) Chippendale Award.  And that is because it’s YOU that belongs in the porn section. I’m not sure this home movie is strictly “porn”.  Not with the way you look at me, and look after me - far too romantic.  Oh well - too bad, so sad.  Maybe I could take you out for an unsecret conciliatory dinner?_

> _Also I’m about to lay down a few 100 words of why you’re so stinkin’ hot - why you fucking me is the the high point of my sexual life - and I’ll bet you the keys to Room 121 that you’ll read this twice before you get through watching last night again…_


End file.
